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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26285236">Out of Sight, Out of Mind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwolke/pseuds/Winterwolke'>Winterwolke</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Captivity, H/D Hurt!Fest 2020, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt Draco Malfoy, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Manipulation, Mind Rape, Mutilation, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Torture, brief homophobic language</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 07:21:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,745</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26285236</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwolke/pseuds/Winterwolke</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grey eyes snap up to him, but they’re not as sharp and calculating as Harry remembers. There’s pain there, making them dull and glazed over. It makes him ache in return, somewhere in a corner of his heart that he wants to rip out immediately after he registers it. It feels wrong to have this reaction to Draco Malfoy, but Harry can’t help it. The house is seriously messing with his mind."</p><p>Trapped inside a strange house with no memories of his life past eighth year, Harry struggles with what he doesn't remember and the only person he can find: Draco Malfoy.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>H/D Hurt!Fest 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Out of Sight, Out of Mind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/gifts">alpha_exodus</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello readers and welcome back to my new story. When I signed up for the H/D Hurt!Fest 2020 I didn't know what to expect and was a bit afraid there wouldn't be the right prompt for me. Fortunately I found the one that got my ideas flowing the second I read it.</p><p>This is for <a href="https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus">alpha_exodus</a> and prompt #158:<br/>"Prompt Details: Harry wakes up in an abandoned cottage alone, bruised, and with amnesia, but soon realizes that he can't leave. The first person he sees is Draco, who he thinks has trapped him here. Little does Harry know that they're Auror partners on a mission gone wrong, but Draco's going to find it next to impossible to convince him of that.</p><p>Additional requests/comments: I'd love if Draco was in love with Harry for fun extra hurtfulness. Also if there were some sort of outside threat that has Draco racing against time to try to get Harry to believe him--or maybe the cottage itself has it out for them."</p><p>I didn't quite manage to nail the prompt with all the details, but I hope it's still something you'll enjoy.</p><p>A very heartfelt thank you to H. for doing an amazing (and so, so fast) job beta reading this story. (I will add you as soon as I am allowed ;))</p><p>Please be aware of the tags; I will leave an explanation about the rape tags and the child abuse in the end notes.</p><p>Have fun reading!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a mistake to open the door, but neither of them could have anticipated that. The door, sturdy, ebony wood, and copper hinges, makes an ominous, creaking sound before sucking them inward, trapping them inside. The darkness swallows them and fear is rising in Harry, reminding him of a cupboard long gone. He doesn’t know where up and down are, seemingly suspended in nothingness. He reaches out, trying to find something to hold onto, but there is nothing. Just darkness.</p><p>It only occurs to him what real darkness means when something crashes into his head, rendering him unconscious.</p><p>***</p><p>Harry wakes with a start. His head hurts like a bitch, his muscles scream at him like he’s just run a marathon, and his throat is parched like he hasn't had anything to drink in days. Despite all that, he's relatively comfortable. He isn't in his own bed in the eighth year dorm, but the mattress is soft and the blankets warm. Through the curtains falls soft, dim light typical for a winter day in Scotland. </p><p>It might not be Harry's own bed, but he isn't worried. It happens from time to time that he stumbles into a different bed - once memorably he fell asleep next to Terry Boot, which ended with an epic cuddle fest. He blushes fiercely at the thought, glad he's obviously alone. He doesn't want to imagine what Ron would have to say, finding him in a strange bed, beet red. His mate has developed quite the mouth on him ever since he and Hermione broke up. Too many differences, she had said, and Harry could believe that. After the War, many things are different.</p><p>Someone is calling him, so Harry peels the sheets from his body and scoots over to the edge of the curtains. His muscles scream in agony, but the pain feels pure, just like after an intense Quidditch practice. Or several of them. His brain thrums away in his skull, but that pain is also manageable. Only, when he puts his feet to the ground, everything is wrong.</p><p>There are boots on his feet, heavy and sturdy, shimmering in the pale light. Dragonhide, his mind supplies, but he doesn't know how he knows. He's wearing black jeans that fit surprisingly well. There is a hole in the knee, but it doesn't come from prolonged use. Except for the small rip, they are immaculate. His legs feel wrong, look wrong even, but he only understands when he stands up.</p><p>Harry's fucking tall. The floor is ridiculously far away, and he sways slightly as he fights for balance. His arms are massive. They're long and muscular; he feels them bunching under the black jumper he wears. It looks almost obscene how the soft fabric stretches tightly over his biceps. As Harry grabs for the nightstand to keep himself from falling, he sees his hands. </p><p>The way this day is going, he doesn't find more words to describe himself. Tall, huge, massive, long. Different, confused, frightened. Nothing makes sense anymore. Especially not the ring on his right thumb, gleaming in bright silver. There are faint lines on it, but in a language he can't read. He feels his emotions choking him at the sight, but he doesn't know why.</p><p>Why is he here? Where is he? And Merlin's bullocks, who is he?</p><p>The room is completely unfamiliar; it's not a dorm but looks like a real bedroom. A simple door leads to a bathroom, a fact he's making use of immediately. The water that comes out of the ancient-looking brass faucet tastes like copper, but it's refreshingly cool and soothes his parched throat. With the water, his headache finally recedes until it's only a soft thrum in his skull, light enough to ignore it altogether.</p><p>There's no mirror in here, but Harry’s had enough of self-discovery for the moment, so he leaves without any more explorations. The light has changed since he left the bedroom and now he can see more details. The room is dusty and almost empty. There is only the bed and a nightstand, but no light. The window glass is tinted with grime. There are definitely no house elves here. </p><p>Next to the door that leads from the room, lies a crimson robe. Harry picks it up, surprised but not, when he finds his own name stitched to the inseam. It fits him perfectly, just like the strange jeans and jumper do. In the pocket he finds his wand, the only thing that is somewhat familiar. It gleams in the weak light, freshly polished like he’s never seen before. Whoever he is now, whatever version of Harry, he obviously takes good care of his things. There’s a spark of curiosity in the back of his mind that wants to know more, like how old he is, but the voice calls for him again and the thought is forgotten in an instant.</p><p>The door opens without a hitch and swings open to reveal a dark hall. While the bedroom is dirty, it’s not overwhelmingly so. It’s more like a well lived-in room with an owner who is a bit lazy. The hallway is, in contrast, the epitome of dirt. Cobwebs are everywhere - there is a huge one that nearly covers the whole passage from wall to wall (Ron would have a heart attack), and the carpet is grey from all the dust. His steps are muffled and barely noticeable. Enormous patches of paint are missing from the walls, and where he can see wallpaper, further along, it’s peeling and moulding.</p><p>There is not a single sound except for his shallow breaths.</p><p>Harry shudders. He isn’t easily fazed by dirt and finds it even comforting to know that he doesn’t have to clean up as soon as he sees a grain of dust, but this is too much, even for him.</p><p>The hallway allows only one direction and Harry follows it, but he has the strange feeling that it’s too long and that he doesn’t get closer to anything. It feels like ten minutes already that he follows the blank walls, but he can’t really tell. There are no windows, but the light never changes, no matter how far he goes.</p><p>Just when he wants to give up and curse his way through the walls - his <i>Reducto</i> is famously strong - they open up to something that seems to be an entrance hall. He’s on top of an impressive staircase that leads down to the ground storey. He sees a huge window that reaches from the bottom to right under the ceiling, equally grimy, but still good enough to see through.</p><p>Beyond, there is an overgrown garden, but the trees look all wrong. They’re wound around themselves like they suffered incredible pain and tried to shield themselves from it. Some of the trees even seem to have faces, contorted in agony. Dean has made them all watch Muggle horror films, and the feeling that Harry is trapped in one gets stronger with each passing second. There are pieces of evidence that something is very wrong, the least his totally changed body.</p><p>Descending the stairs is hard since he has no feeling for heights, but he manages without an accident and only two almost-slips. As soon as his feet meet the rotten floorboards of the ground floor, he hears the voice calling for him again. It’s soft, maybe muffled, like the person wants to call him, but is afraid they are too loud. Why they would be afraid to call out for him, he doesn’t know. Despite the eerie feelings the house provokes, Harry hasn’t seen anything dangerous. He doesn’t know if that’s a good sign.</p><p>A loud gurgle breaks the silence. His hand comes up to his stomach and he realises he hasn’t eaten in forever. He can’t remember the last time, but it isn’t a surprise considering he also can’t remember growing up past his school days. Something catches his attention, an insistent blinking in the corner of his left eye, and he follows it to find a fully equipped kitchen. The blinking turns out to be an oven lamp, signaling that the baking is now done. It’s the same oven that Aunt Petunia has in her kitchen and it’s absolutely out of place. This house feels like a Wizarding place.</p><p>Nevertheless, Harry has learned to eat when the opportunity presents, so he carefully eases the tray with the freshly baked bread rolls out of its contraption and sets them on the table. A creek startles him badly, but when he turns it’s only the door of a cupboard, revealing an untouched jar of strawberry jam. He thinks about the possible consequences of eating strange food in a strange place, but his instincts don’t tell him that it’s a trap. They’ve been an invaluable help during the War, so Harry trusts his gut feeling more than anything else.</p><p>He finds everything else he needs- a plate and a knife - in another cupboard, and even a kettle and some tea. It isn’t much, but it makes for a good breakfast, and it doesn’t take long before half of the rolls are gone. The other half, Harry decides, will be kept for later. Merlin knows when there’s more food. A quick search of the kitchen reveals it to be empty of anything else. He leaves, his search for the owner of the voice now pressing in his mind.</p><p>The hallway with the stairs and the kitchen opens into another room that seems to be some kind of parlour. The walls are lined with bookcases, overstuffed with books, some of them so old they radiate their ancientness like an aura. Most of them are in a language Harry can’t read nor properly recognise. The letters are Latin, but they don’t make any sense like he forgot how to read while being unconscious. The fact that it’s entirely possible freaks him out, but is eerily soothing at the same time. He’s suddenly an adult, in a strange place; not being able to read seems like a minor worry.</p><p>A whimper draws him to an expensive-looking couch (a faint voice insists that it's a chaise longue). The green velvet is faded with age, but the gold embroidery gleams in the light almost preternaturally. The pattern is intricate, reminding Harry of the snakes in Myrtle's bathroom, strangely alive for something inanimate. The whimper comes from behind the couch. The fact that it's Harry's own name doesn't register once he sees who cowers there.</p><p>At first, he thinks it's Lucius Malfoy, and he has his wand raised before he even finishes the thought, ready to curse the bugger into oblivion. But then he takes a closer look. The differences are subtle - the hair is different, not as long or slicked but shoulder-length and soft-looking. Matted with blood. The build is both slighter and bulkier. The hips are slimmer, but the shoulders are more pronounced. The skin is milky white and clearly visible under the torn jumper.</p><p>It's not Lucius Malfoy, but the marginally lesser of two evils, his son. Who is also an adult, he notices.</p><p>"Malfoy," Harry says, voice dripping with disdain. Everything that is wrong with this day is probably his fault, Harry's sure of it. It always is, somehow, Malfoy’s fault. He remembers second year vividly or third year. His ‘favourite’ surely is sixth year, but he shies away from the memories. Everything is too painful, especially since it feels like it just happened yesterday.</p><p>Grey eyes snap up to him, but they’re not as sharp and calculating as Harry remembers. There’s pain there, making them dull and glazed over. It makes him ache in return, somewhere in a corner of his heart that he wants to rip out immediately after he registers it. It feels wrong to have this reaction to Draco Malfoy, but Harry can’t help it. The house is seriously messing with his mind.</p><p>Slowly recognition seeps into the flat gaze. Malfoy tries to get up from the floor several times but then just sinks back against the couch. His palms leave bloody fingerprints on the wooden floor, but he never takes his eyes off Harry. Like he’s afraid Harry might vanish if he looks away for the barest second. Finally, he stops his struggles and just sits there, shoulders slumped, posture defeated.</p><p>“Is it really you, Harry?” he asks. His voice is rough and cracks at the name.</p><p>Harry raises an eyebrow in surprise and question. Apparently he and Malfoy are on a first-name basis, not that he can remember how that could come to be. He wonders what to do. He’s in a strange house, he can’t remember his life past eighth year. Maybe he’s trapped, maybe not, but aside from himself and his school nemesis, there’s nobody else here.</p><p>“I guess I am. Although I can’t remember since when you’d call me Harry. Or the actual year. Or anything else,” he says snidely, waiting for a melodramatic fit. Hopes for it, really, because it would be the only normal thing he’s encountered all day.</p><p>He doesn’t get it. Instead, Malfoy sighs, like the burden on his shoulders just doubled. He doesn’t seem surprised in the least.</p><p>“That’ll just complicate things, but it’s no surprise,” Malfoy says. He tries to get up again but doesn’t have much luck this time either. He seems weaker, like Harry’s memory loss sucked a good portion of energy out of him.<br/>
“Can you sit down with me? Maybe we can jog your memories.” His expression is pleading and needy and plain wrong in Harry’s opinion.</p><p>It makes him suspicious. Malfoy in general makes him suspicious (and he was right all those times before), and he thinks about refusing. Thinks about the wand in his hand. About the fact that he hasn’t seen a wand on Malfoy, who is weak and doesn’t seem to expect an attack. It would be really easy to overpower him. He actually looks quite pretty, in pain and bloody like he is now, Harry thinks, surprised at the thought, but not.</p><p>There’s a conflict brewing in his mind. Malfoy seems to know some answers, and he’s weak. Even if Harry doesn’t attack him immediately, he has no doubt he could react fast and strong enough to get the upper hand. But sitting down and listening would mean giving Malfoy what he wants, and Harry’s never been less inclined to comply. In the end his curiosity wins, and it helps that he clearly has all the advantages of the situation.</p><p>“Alright. Talk,” Harry says, barely suppressing the hostility in his voice. He lifts an eyebrow, a gesture that is strange and familiar at the same time. He didn’t use to do it before, but it feels natural to do it now. He’s sitting a foot away, close enough to see even more.</p><p>Malfoy’s jumper is torn, separated by what looks like claw marks. There are shallow wounds visible underneath, crisscrossed by old scars. They’re the marks left by Sectumsempra, Harry realises, and that feeling of satisfaction wells up in him again. It’s something he can’t understand; the curse was probably the worst thing he’s ever done. And yet.</p><p>Malfoy’s face is scratched to hell, there’s a shallow cut on his temple still bleeding. When Harry looks at his bloody hands, he sees a fingernail missing completely, the others ragged and broken. The pinkie on his right hand is oddly askew, surely broken.</p><p>Harry notices they’re both wearing basically the same clothes, a black jumper, black jeans, and dragonhide boots. There’s probably a crimson robe somewhere around here, too. It’s his first question.</p><p>“Why are we wearing the same clothes?”</p><p>There’s a small smile breaking through the haze of pain in Malfoy’s face. It oddly transforms him, makes him prettier, less edgy. It’s freaking Harry out that he notices things like this.</p><p>“We’re Aurors. Well, I’m not really an Auror, but I belong to a different division inside the DMLE. I’m a Cursebreaker. This is a joint mission between our two subdivisions, all orchestrated by the Department of Mysteries. They sent us here to clear the house. We’re sure there are powerful artifacts hidden, as well as this house is believed to be the hideout of the necromancer we’ve been trying to catch for several months.”</p><p>Malfoy sighs, deep and a bit desperate, and it tells Harry that these past months must’ve been quite stressful to him. He doesn’t know much about the Ministry of Magic or the works of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, since he can’t remember if he's even finished school, but that little bit of information sounds important and intricate. Mr. Weasley cursed the Unspeakables often enough that he knows the Department of Mysteries seldom gets involved - and when it does, things tend to be serious.</p><p>"So, what went wrong?" Harry asks because it's obvious things don't go according to plan. Malfoy's injuries are a testament to that. </p><p>"Everything."</p><p>As far as information goes, it's absolutely useless, but he doesn't get more, because suddenly Malfoy starts to scream. At first, Harry thinks it's just for show, he knows Malfoy has a flair for the dramatic, but he soon realises it's completely different from the Buckbeak incident in third year. Back then the git had cried bloody murder, barely able to refrain from laughing between his fits.<br/>
His voice now is guttural, broken, and so hoarse Harry’s throat hurts in sympathy. Malfoy tries to muffle his cries with his hands, and Harry sees blood, tears, and snot dripping from his fingers. It’s ugly and messy, and definitely not just a show. Not even Malfoy is that good an actor.</p><p>It lasts for several minutes, all of which Harry is frantically wondering what he could do to help. His mind is blank, he can't even remember the simplest spell to stop nose bleeding, although he knows they learned one in their third week of first year. His fist clenches around his wand whenever a scream is especially bloodcurdling. </p><p>The fit seems to last forever and ends rather abruptly with Malfoy collapsing on the floor, silent at last, but now convulsing and twitching. Harry drops his wand in shock, but at least he knows how to handle those kinds of situations: he can remember Muggle first aid just fine. Just in time, he turns Malfoy from his back to his side, grimacing when the git vomits all over himself and the floor. There’s only bile, at least, but it raises the question when he ate last. Harry still has half of the rolls in one of his robe pockets, maybe he should share them. He knows hunger intimately, knows how hard it can be to concentrate, to function, while your stomach cramps around emptiness for days. It’s nothing people should experience. </p><p>Once the vomit stops, Malfoy falls still. He’s still breathing, but it’s shallow. His face is a mess of grime, tracks of tears breaking thick lines of blood. He looks eerily young like this, eyes closed, his wrinkles smoothed by his unconsciousness. It’s odd to combine the memory of Malfoy in sixth year with this adult version. There are so many similarities, but so many differences, too. </p><p>It’s the very thing Harry has tried to avoid since waking up, comparing this reality with his meagre memories because he realises it’s impossible. Impossible to think about his life, of ten or more years, missing when he can’t remember graduating. </p><p>He remembers the War and all the trauma it caused, but it feels equally long ago and recent. He remembers the decaying body of Voldemort, crumbling into a pile of stinking skin and bones after the magic that held it together was gone. He remembers the stomach-turning stench, the disgusting colours. But his memory is muted, dim, like an old Muggle film in sepia. He can’t tell if he was alone or surrounded by people or even where he was when it happened.</p><p>As he watches Malfoy sleep, he can recall the deep-seated hatred he felt for the longest time, the bewilderment when the git refused to identify him at Malfoy Manor. Those memories seem even farther away, like so many things happened between then and now; it’s all washed out. Harry wonders just how close they work together when thinking about their school days feels almost nostalgic. </p><p>Hours seem to pass by, and Malfoy doesn’t even twitch. It gets boring fast, with nothing to do. He’s surrounded by books, but can’t read. There’s a whole house to explore but he doesn’t want to leave Malfoy alone, a strange sense of duty is keeping him rooted. All he can do is watch the gnarled trees outside. There is no sun, only a homogenous grey sky, an ugly colour devoid of any nuances. There are no leaves flying around, although the trees are whipping in the wind. It’s oddly rhythmical, like the dance of damned souls, luring his mind away from the situation. </p><p>Harry doesn’t realise the day turns into night, hypnotised by swinging branches and Malfoy’s steady breathing beside him.</p><p>***</p><p>Harry wakes with a start. His head hurts, his muscles scream at him, and his throat is parched like he hasn't had something to drink in ages. Despite all that he's relatively comfortable. He isn't in his own bed in the eighth year dorm, but the mattress is soft and the blankets warm. Through the curtains falls soft, dim light, typical for a winter day in Scotland. </p><p>It might not be Harry's own bed, but he isn't worried. It happens from time to time that he stumbles into a different one. He blushes fiercely, glad he's obviously alone. He doesn't want to imagine what Ron would have to say, finding him in a strange bed, beet red. His mate has developed quite the mouth on him ever since he and Hermione broke up. Too many differences, she had said, and Harry could believe that. After the War, many things are different.</p><p>Someone is calling him, so Harry peels the sheets from his body and scoots over to the edge of the curtains. His muscles scream in agony, but the pain feels pure like after an intense Quidditch practice. Or several of them. His brain thrums away in his skull, but that pain is also manageable. Only when he puts his feet to the ground, everything is wrong.</p><p>There are boots on his feet, heavy and sturdy, shimmering in the pale light. Dragonhide, his mind supplies, but he doesn't know how he knows. He's wearing black jeans that fit surprisingly well. There is a hole in the knee, but it doesn't come from prolonged use.</p><p>And he’s different. His feet look huge, his thighs oddly muscled. The black jumper he’s wearing stretches over his broad shoulders. He’s grown up but can’t remember anything past eighth year. The thought isn’t as disturbing as it should be. There’s a small voice in his head insisting he find out what’s wrong, but it’s very faint, and Harry doesn’t listen to the voices in his head on principle. It’s a lesson he’s learned.</p><p>He’s still wondering where he is or why he’s even here when the voice calls for him again. Despite the tiredness in his bones and the confusion he picks up the discarded crimson robes near the door and moves outside the bedroom.</p><p>The hallway is open, pompous, with ceiling-high windows, thick columns, and wide arches. There are rich, crimson curtains and gilded ornaments, a stark contrast to the plain and dusty bedroom he just left. Light shines through the stained-glass windows, but it looks wrong, artificial. The hall isn’t dark, but the more details Harry tries to make out, the more they evade him. He thinks he can see cobwebs and thick dust in the corner of his eyes, but when he turns, everything looks perfect on the surface.</p><p>A shudder runs down his spine, although he can’t pinpoint a real reason for it. His head is a bit jumbled, a bit bruised, just like his body. There’s this itch, something that begs him to stop and see, but it’s muted and seems far away.</p><p>The voice calls for him again, so he walks forward, leaving the grand hallway and trudging down a flight of stairs that has seen better days. They lead to a parlour that is dusty and unclean. The curtains here are mouldy, the colour of old cheese and powdery moss. It smells like mothballs and decay, like rotten plants and brackish water. </p><p>In the middle of the room, supported by an old stool, cowers Draco Malfoy. He’s grown up as well, is bloody and hurt, but Harry immediately feels hostility rising in him. There’s no question in his mind that Malfoy is the culprit of this. He’s the reason Harry can’t remember growing up or doesn’t know why he’s here or where ‘here’ is. And it doesn’t matter, not anymore, because Harry will make him take it all back, be it giving the memories back or turning him into a lanky eighteen-year-old again. </p><p>His wand is in his hand without him noticing as if his anger has summoned it, and maybe it has.<br/>
The Unforgivable is on his lips without thinking about it, as fury consumes him.</p><p>“Crucio!” Harry bellows, satisfied when the curse hits an unsuspecting Malfoy, making him writhe in agony. He barely screams, which dampens that elated feeling inside Harry just a bit but not enough to stop. Only when he sees fat tears rolling down pale cheeks and flecks of blood flying from bitten lips, he stops.</p><p>Malfoy convulses for another minute, his nerve endings fired up enough that they don’t immediately realise the hurt is gone. He begins to sob, his cries muffled, but clearly there. Harry's chest swells in accomplishment until soft, pathetic whispers reach his ear.</p><p>“No more, please. Not again, I can’t. Please, Harry!”</p><p>The endorphin rush subsides as fast as it came, followed by the crushing realisation of what Harry has done. He just used an Unforgivable on Draco Malfoy, who is admittedly his nemesis, but who’s also injured and weak and not even a hint of danger.</p><p>“Shit, I’m sorry Malfoy. D’you hear me? I don’t know why I did that, I’m sorry.”</p><p>Harry feels slightly ill, feels transported back to sixth year. He might not have used the Cruciatus Curse back then but something equally horrible.</p><p>“It’s okay. No worries. Everything is fine, Harry, it’s all fine. No worries.”</p><p>Malfoy is rambling, his eyes blank as he stares ahead from his prone position on the floor. Harry is at a loss on how to help him. He’s looking for something useful, like how to perform first aid in a situation like this, but except for <i>Aguamenti</i> nothing comes to mind. Maybe he can at least wipe away some of the blood that flecks Malfoy’s pale cheeks. </p><p>As he looks through his crimson robe, he finds a bundle with bread rolls, a lot of lint, and a handkerchief. It isn’t his, Harry is pretty sure, because the fabric is soft and stark white, embroidered with a stylised crest: the antlers of a stag encompass three long, colourful feathers. It’s a pity to use it, but it’s the only thing at hand.</p><p>“Aguamenti!”</p><p>He brings the dripping fabric to Malfoy’s face, carefully rubbing at the different traces of body fluids. There’s a literal layer of grime, and once it’s gone, Harry flinches. Underneath the filth, Malfoy is deadly pale and littered with bruises.</p><p>He’s stopped mumbling and instead watches every move, flinching whenever Harry moves too fast or outside his line of vision. It’s painful to watch, this kind of helplessness.</p><p>Harry settles beside him, talking softly as he wipes away more dirt. It’s mostly nonsense, a way to distract himself from the many injuries that mar Malfoy’s body. His jumper is in tatters and only held together by wishful thinking. The knees of his black jeans are ripped, the skin beneath bloody and burned. Malfoy tries to avoid moving his right leg and whimpers when Harry tries to get a better look. One finger is missing a fingernail, and three fingers of his right hand are certainly broken, standing out at an odd angle.</p><p>Harry finally remembers some of his education, transforming the bloody handkerchief into a disfigured cup. It looks hideous, but the crest survives, and it doesn't leak, so he counts it as a win. It takes forever to coax Malfoy to drink from it, but the water seems to help revive him a bit. When his grey eyes fixate on Harry, there’s recognition there.</p><p>“Harry?” Malfoy’s voice is still broken, but stronger than before. It’s still nothing more than a whisper.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s me,” he answers. It’s odd to hear his first name spoken so softly, and not that hateful “Potter”. It's too intimate, a thought that makes his skin crawl in discomfort. Being intimate with the likes of Malfoy isn’t something he wants to imagine.</p><p>“Do you,” Malfoy swallows painfully, “Do you remember anything?”</p><p>“Well, I remembered how to transfigure something into a cup, but not much else. No.” Harry shakes his head.</p><p>While he’d been tending to Malfoy, he tried to remember anything, but there is a huge blank space in his mind. Between a winter’s day at Hogwarts and now seem to be some ten-odd years, maybe more, but whenever he tries to recall something from his past, Harry’s brain starts to itch in a very uncomfortable way, getting unbearably stronger until he stops thinking, stops trying.</p><p>“Fuck!” It’s such a strong word, one that he would never have expected from Malfoy.<br/>
“I really need you to remember.”</p><p>“There’s a fat chance that won’t happen. It’s not like I’m not trying, you know?!”</p><p>“I know,” Malfoy sighs, a desperate and tired sound. “I’ll try to explain as much as I can, maybe it’ll help?”</p><p>“Alright.” Harry picks up the lumpy bundle of bread rolls, holding one out to Malfoy. “Here, are you hungry? I don’t know where I got them from, but they seem to be okay.”</p><p>Malfoy looks at the mushed roll longingly but ultimately shakes his head.</p><p>“No, the house won’t let me eat. Water’s allowed, thank Merlin, but it punishes me for doing something not to its liking. And it would really like for me to not eat.” </p><p>He blushes when his stomach begins to growl loudly in the otherwise silent parlour.</p><p>That’s an odd statement, but Harry complies without questioning it, at least for now.</p><p>“This house is - was the hideout of a very dangerous necromancer. You and I, we work for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, although we aren’t partners or even work for the same division. I am a Cursebreaker, you are an Auror. This necromancer was said to be the next Dark Lord, so everyone tried to catch him. Still took us six months to finally pinpoint his location. We followed him to this house. You and I, we wanted to wait for reinforcement, but Croaker, the Head of the Department of Mysteries, was adamant we go in immediately, arrest the necromancer and destroy any artifacts we could find. He pulled rank on us, so we had to obey him. We all knew it was a huge mistake, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to get one over Head Auror Robarts. They’re always fighting…</p><p>“Anyway, we got sucked in through the door. When I woke up, you were gone. I wandered the halls and found our necromancer - he is dead. I was relieved at first until I realised what he had done before his death.</p><p>“You see, this house belonged to the French nobleman Gille de Rais. He was a war hero, fought at Jeanne d’Arc’s side against the British. Later he was found to be a serial killer, kidnapping, raping, and killing children from villages all over the region. The necromancer was actually one of his accomplices, Francesco Prelati. I don’t know why he surfaced now, but he obviously set out to revive Gille de Rais. Only, he didn’t resurrect de Rais, but somehow melded his spirit with the house, creating something sentient. The house is keeping us from leaving, and it’s trying to keep us separated… although it worries me that it allows for us to meet occasionally.”</p><p>It’s the longest speech Harry has ever heard from Malfoy and the only time that there is no trace of insult. It’s just an account of what happened and why, no malice or ill-intent. It makes asking questions easier.</p><p>“Why are you hurt and I’m not? I have a few bruises, I think, but you look… Malfoy, quite frankly, you look horrible!”</p><p>Harry winces at his rudeness. For a second he actually forgot who he’s talking to and that Malfoy is a ticking time bomb on the best of days. Today doesn’t even seem like a bad day, but like the worst day ever. To his surprise, the git only chuckles lightly.</p><p>“I know. Although nothing can mar the beauty that lies beneath, don’t you think?” His playful tone quickly falls flat again.</p><p>“De Rais, he liked kids. He would take them from their families, make them pliable with food and alcohol, and then string them up, rip off their clothes and show them how he got off on their helplessness. Then he or one of his accomplices would kill them. He was a monster. And he liked boys best. Those with elegant hands and feet, graceful bodies, fair hair, and fascinating eyes.”</p><p>Malfoy trails off, but it’s enough information to paint a gruesome picture. He can understand what Malfoy means. Harry is bulkier than him, knows he isn’t bad looking, but he’s a far cry from someone with centuries of considerate breeding, the extravagant limbs of noblesse. He swallows the bile that’s been steadily rising in his throat, shakes off the disgust that tries to settle in his bones. There’s time to really think about what happened in this house, what might happen in the next hour. It’s just not right now. </p><p>After minutes of silence, he finally asks: “What do we do now?”</p><p>“Wait. If you would remember your training, we could maybe try to get out. But without my wand and your knowledge, all we can do is wait. Granger and Weasley are out there, working on our rescue. Sometimes you can hear their voices calling for us, so hopefully it won’t be long before we’re free. If you’d remember anything, maybe we could help from this side, but the house is doing something to you, suppressing your memories.”</p><p>They fall silent again, while Malfoy drinks more water and Harry contemplates all he’s heard. At least people know they’re in trouble and try to rescue them. And it’s Ron and Hermione, the two people Harry can rely on most in this world. </p><p>His left hand fiddles with the ring on his right thumb. It’s made of silver, in a fashion that Harry wouldn’t willingly wear, but it has been there since he woke up, and he’s reluctant to take it off. It’s just a small movement in the corner of his eyes, but it’s enough to catch his attention. As Malfoy puts the cup away, Harry sees a copy of the ring on his right thumb, too.</p><p>“Why do we both have matching rings?” It’s out before he can hold the question back. Of all the insignificant things in this situation, two silver rings should be the most insignificant. He doesn’t expect the light blush that gives Malfoy’s deadly pale skin the illusion of life.</p><p>“They’re ours. Yours and mine. Like,“ he pauses, unsure if he should continue. Harry urges him on with an impatient wave of his hand. “Like marriage rings, alright?”</p><p>“Marriage rings? You mean you and I are married?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“But I’m not gay! And I’m with Ginny!” </p><p>It’s outrageous, the thought that not only he and Ginny don't date anymore, but that he could be gay. There are no blokes he’s ever had the wish to get to know on a deeper level. Or see naked. Sure, there was that typical teenager curiosity in the Quidditch locker room, but that was perfectly normal for fifteen or sixteen. Malfoy is just pulling his chain.</p><p>“Didn’t know you were such a jester, Malfoy,” he says, an indignant eyebrow raised. He almost regrets it, when he sees the light in Malfoy’s eyes go out and the slight smile fall flat.</p><p>After that, they continue to sit in silence. The day passes by, but neither of them realises just how much time passes.</p><p>***</p><p>Harry wakes with a start. His head hurts like a bitch, his muscles scream at him like he just ran a marathon, and his throat is parched like he hasn't had anything to drink in eons. Despite all that he's relatively comfortable. He isn't in his own bed in the eighth year dorm, but the mattress is soft and the blankets warm. Through the curtains falls soft, dim light, typical for a winter day in Scotland. </p><p>It might not be Harry's own bed, but he isn't worried. Someone is calling him, the voice female and somehow familiar, but he can’t place it. </p><p>Harry peels the sheets from his body and scoots over to the edge of the curtains. His muscles scream in agony, but the pain feels pure like after an intense Quidditch practice. Or several of them. His brain thrums away in his skull, but that pain is also manageable. Only when he puts his feet to the ground, everything is wrong.</p><p>There are boots on his feet, heavy and sturdy, shimmering in the pale light. Dragonhide, his mind supplies, but he doesn't know how he knows. He's wearing black jeans that fit surprisingly well. There is a hole in the knee, but it doesn't come from prolonged use.</p><p>What stands out is the blood and grime on his hands. He doesn’t feel hurt, just tired and a bit bruised, so it seems to be a valid question why there’s blood.</p><p>A door creaks ominously, revealing a bathroom. As he gets up, everything feels odd for a moment, but he can’t see why, and he doesn’t linger on the thought. Although he realises now that he isn’t in any dorm, isn’t sure if he’s even at Hogwarts, he isn’t worried.</p><p>The blood comes off easily under the heavy spray of cold water. It wakes his muted senses, clearing his head from some lingering cobwebs. It’s quite obvious what’s happening here. He remembers the Death Eaters invading Hogwarts, Malfoy leading them up the Astronomy tower. He remembers Snape and Dumbledore and doesn’t want to remember the rest. The burning rage that races through his veins, igniting his blood, isn’t new to him, but as he exits the bathroom, he knows where to go. </p><p>Something whispers to him, not the voice from before, but something else, something more helpful. It tells him that he and Malfoy are alone in this house, that Malfoy is helpless, that nobody will hear him scream. He only has to find the fucking traitor.</p><p>He picks up a crimson robe on his way out of the bedroom and conveniently finds his wand in one of the pockets. The hallway outside the room is dark and dusty, littered with scraps of faded wallpaper, broken furniture, and glass shards. The windows are boarded up, letting only the faintest rays of light inside, just enough so Harry doesn’t hurt himself on the debris.<br/>
It’s a short walk until he’s standing in a parlour. The room must have been a sight to behold in previous days, but it’s just as dismal as the hallway. The only interesting thing is fresh drops of blood leading him further on. </p><p>The voice in his head tells him it’s Malfoy’s blood, that he’s hurt and easy prey. Maybe not as satisfying as if he was uninjured, but enough to quench the bloodthirst that has built in Harry’s veins. His stomach turns in anticipation. With his added height and his bulky muscles he isn’t a weak, malnourished eleven-year-old but a serious predator. </p><p>The trail gets thicker and fresher as he slowly walks down another hallway. He isn’t in a hurry, finally understands why anticipation is half the pleasure. There’s something primal and animalistic in hunting someone down. It’s almost like he can smell the fear in the air, a thick stench of despair and agony creating an enticing flavour. He licks his lips as he rounds another corner.</p><p>The room before him is dark, but in the silence of the house every harsh breath and whimper is amplified. Harry has finally found his target. The solid layer of dust makes him almost silent as he approaches, wand at ready. He’s contemplating which hex to use first. There are some deliciously wicked. Curses that peel away parts of the skin - not enough to incapacitate someone but painful enough to make them suffer. Hexes that slash only a few layers of skin and flesh but leave important blood vessels intact. The Cruciatus Curse, basic but effective. He could simply conjure a knife and do everything with his bare hands in any case. </p><p>Harry finds Malfoy cowering between two bookcases, like the frightened coward that he really is. He doesn’t seem aware of the danger he’s in, preoccupied with wiping blood away from his bare chest. He doesn’t wear a jumper, his trousers are almost shredded away. What’s left of the fabric is drenched in blood and other liquids Harry doesn’t want to think off, so he lets that fact go.</p><p>His eyes zero in on the simple silver ring on Malfoys right thumb. There is an echo in his head, another voice.</p><p>
  <i>“They’re ours. Yours and mine. Like marriage rings, alright?”</i>
</p><p>Like Harry would be gay and actually marry such scum like Malfoy. It’s crazy to think anybody could willingly marry this snake. Rage sweeps through him, and he does conjure the knife just as planned to cut off the offending appendage.</p><p>Malfoy finally seems to notice that he isn’t alone. His face lights up for a second before he must see Harry's expression.</p><p>“Ha-harry?” he asks timidly, obviously noticing that something is wrong. There are many things wrong in this world, but Harry is about to rectify some of those things. He smiles at the cowering mess before his feet with as much kindness as he can muster, which is none. </p><p>Malfoy tries to get up, scrambles to get up, but there’s no way to escape, not with his extensive injuries and a very agile, very non-injured Harry ready to hunt him down. </p><p>Harry kneels before him, lifts the knife and runs it almost lovingly over Malfoy’s hollow cheeks, his split lip, his scarred chest. On his way down he accidentally nicks a nipple, causing fresh trickles of blood to run down the otherwise deadly pale chest. </p><p>“Oops, sorry,” he says, although they both know he isn’t sorry at all. He leans forward, catching some of the blood with his right thumb. The silver ring gets bloody as well, but it only fills him with satisfaction. He smears the blood over Malfoy’s plump lower lip, pushing and prodding until the split opens again and deepens, causing even more blood. It’s an obscene and violent lipstick, and Harry thinks smugly that it looks good on such a pathetic poof.</p><p>He likes the weight of the knife in his hand and decides that it’s the perfect tool to teach an unforgettable lesson about loyalty and treachery and that one doesn’t fuck with the Chosen One and his loved ones.</p><p>Small nicks are littering Malfoy’s body soon enough. They paint a fascinating pattern across his chest and down his arms. Harry pays special attention to the hand-shaped bruises on Malfoy’s hips, tracing them with the tip of the knife for a lasting image.</p><p>Malfoy pleads with him the whole time, begs him to stop, to reconsider, tells him fantastic stories of sentient houses and medieval serial killers, but it’s all just background music for Harry’s creativity. He’s not a predator anymore, he’s an artist with an exquisite canvas. He’s just started but he already can’t take his eyes off the ethereal beauty that he creates with skilled cuts.</p><p>Time flies by as he creates a masterpiece, but before long his eyes catch the silver ring again. He forces Malfoy’s hand in the air, the protest weak now that the blood is flowing freely from numerous wounds. Harry looks at the knife and realises it isn’t strong enough to make a clean cut, not through skin and flesh, sinews and bone. He contemplates for a minute, but then decides on keeping it - hacking and slashing will drive the lesson home even better.</p><p>The initial cut is easy, although the bloodcurdling scream it provokes grates on his nerves. The crescendo of voices paralyses him for precious moments, but as Malfoy’s voice dies out in a coughing fit, there is still a second voice frantically shouting.</p><p>He turns and unexpectedly sees an otter. It’s not a real animal, but an apparition of light. His mind fumbles for the knowledge and finally dredges up what he sees. It’s a Patronus and not just any, but Hermione’s. She’s calling to him, begging him to stop, and for a moment he feels inclined to do so, but the pathetic sobs Malfoy cries beneath him are too much of a distraction, and he turns again, ignoring the animal. </p><p>It’s a mistake.</p><p>With a frantic “NO!” the otter weasels its way between them, then launches itself right into Harry’s face.</p><p>He has never felt pain this strong, this all-encompassing like at this moment. The otter burns through his skin, his flesh, into his core, eradicating the shadows that have taken a hold of his mind. He hasn’t known they were there, but the agony of them leaving lets no room for doubt.</p><p>With a hoarse scream, he passes out.</p><p>***</p><p>Harry wakes with a start. His head hurts like a bitch, his muscles scream at him, his throat is parched. He’s not at home in his own bed, not at the Burrow or at Ron’s and Hermione’s, and it takes an embarrassingly long time to recognise his surroundings.</p><p>The sterile smell of St. Mungo’s burns his nostrils, the soft beeping of monitoring spells fills his ears. His mind is flooded with memories.</p><p>He remembers everything.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Regarding the tags (and also spoilers for the story): the "culprit" of the story is Gille de Rais, a French nobleman who lived in the 15th century. While a war hero, de Rais is also known to be one of France most notorious serial killers. In the story, there is a discussion about his crimes, but only stated in mere facts, with the words "kidnapped, raped, killed". There is a mild description of that a bit further below, but nothing is going into detail. If you are unsure and you can stomach the wikipedia article, it's more graphic than the story. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gilles_de_Rais">(Wikipedia fyi)</a> Since I wanted to make you aware that there are children discussed, I added the tag "child abuse", as well as "implied non-con" and a warning. The non-con tag will be referenced more in the story but without details.</p><p>Now that's out of the way, I hope you enjoyed reading the story. If you feel there are tags missing, or I should have explained more about the tags, feel free to contact me.</p><p>Faithful readers might already know we have a little one on the way. When this story will be revealed, it'll be really close to my due date, so it's entirely possible I won't be present for either the reveal nor to receive your comments, if you want to leave some. Please comment regardless, I will get back to you as soon as I can.</p><p>Some additional notes: Since I've been working from home, I've been listening to some crime podcasts. It's really difficult to find one on Spotify that hasn't any adds in it (and I have premium), but I did find "Verbrechen der Vergangenheit" von "Geo Epoche" (yes, a German podcast). It's really interesting, talking about body snatchers in London, or Al Capone and such, and it had an episode about Gille de Rais. Morbid fascination made me research the case and I knew I wanted to write something with him. Enter the prompt. I think I was able to connect both of the topics in the best way. </p><p>Since Draco is explaining everything I kept the French names; as an old French family and purebloods, the Malfoys surely are able to speak French.</p><p>If you're wondering why their rings are on their right thumbs: I imagine they both have dangerous jobs and they both didn't want to make it in-your-face-obvious that they have a husband waiting for them at home in case something went wrong. Rings on different fingers can have different meanings, and the right thumb doesn't symbolise anything significant, so there's that.</p><p>The crest with the antlers and the (peacock) feathers is the Malfoy-Potter family crest.</p><p>Although Harry remembers Ron and Hermione not being together, I assure you that Weasley and Granger are (in case you wondered).</p><p>If you're dying to know what happens next, please feel free to leave me a comment. I left the ending this vague for a reason and will likely never write a sequel to it, but I have some ideas. So if you can't sleep because of the uncertainty, don't be afraid to ask.</p><p>Edit: On October 22, the little one was born. Everyone is healthy. Please excuse any delay in answering to your comments. They are received and will be answered eventually. :)</p><p>--</p><p>Remember to leave some love for the creator if you can! Come reblog this work and view others from this fest <a href="https://hd-hurtfest.tumblr.com/">HERE</a> on the H/D Hurt!Fest tumblr page!</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30126162">The Art of Forgetting</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/SumthinClever/pseuds/SumthinClever">SumthinClever</a>
    </li>
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